Regrets
by MusketeerAdventure
Summary: Each man had gone to war and come back as someone new – regrets and all. This is a multi-chapter entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires June challenge, with the theme of 'Regret'. Chapter One: d'Artagnan. Chapter Two: Athos. Chapter Three: Porthos. And now Chapter Four: Aramis.
1. Chapter 1

Regrets

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: Each man had gone to war and come back as someone new – regrets and all. This is a multi-chapter entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires March challenge, with the theme of 'Regret'.

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Chapter One: d'Artagnan

d'Artagnan woke with a start and there at his side lay his wife. The warm feel of her at his hip settled his racing heart and slowly the disjointed remnants of his dream seeped back into the dark corners of this place, and waited there for another time. They were patient his dreams, and would only creep out to envelope him when his defenses were low.

Always at his happiest, they would find a way to startle him back in time to those terrible, dangerous killing fields. What he would give to lay such horrors to rest.

But for now, he was safe. Here in his quarters; in bed with his Constance – puffs of air from her soft lips, caressing his shoulder. The tremors in his hands lessened as he pushed wayward auburn curls behind an ear and kissed her forehead.

Holding her close, he sighed shakily and rubbed a hand over his eyes, then pinched the bridge of his nose. Concentrating hard to even out his breathing, he repeated to himself with quiet determination, "I am home. I am home.", until he was certain the room would not morph into the sickening stench of battle.

He felt Constance absentmindedly squeeze his arm, and little by little his body relaxed with relief.

Swallowing with resignation, he knew he was a mess. Ever closer she nestled and breathed out words of comfort he could not understand; but her voice grounded him to this moment and so one more time he pressed the point with renewed vigor, "I am home."

It was a marvel to him that she still loved him; for he was not the boy who rode off to war four years ago. Deep down she must sense it. She must know that the d'Artagnan she married was lost somewhere out among the crimsoned fields.

His positive nature, a casualty of war; buried beneath mounds of sorrow.

He could feel it. Everything about him was different; nothing was the same. He had gone to war and come back as someone new. Only memories of his father, mother, Lupiac – meeting his brothers; falling in love – reminded him of who he used to be.

When he had left Constance here four years ago, his face was round with youth. His heart was full of passion and enthusiasm for life and his love for her knew no bounds. The war had seemed to him an adventure – a challenge to be concurred - much like the challenge of finding his father's killer; gaining his commission or attaining Athos' respect and Constance's love. All of which had been secured with confidence and clarity.

Only he had not concurred war. Instead it had altered him.

Now, instead of soft - his face was chiseled; his body hard with muscle; his eyes wide open with the truth of life rather than the wonders of what lay ahead in the future. Whereas before he was reckless in judgement – now he was fearless. Death, for all her arguments of darkness and permanence, held no sway over his pronouncements.

Four years ago he was content to follow; now he chomped at the bit to lead. He supposed he had grown up and now at twenty-five was a man reinvented.

He rubbed Constance's shoulder and felt her snuggle in closer and reach to capture his waist. He could feel the strength in her arms; and wished they could remain here – just this way; side by side forever.

How lucky he was to have returned and be whole of body and mind. Athos had promised to see him back to his wife and here he was.

But what must she think of him now? She must wonder - who was this man who lay with her; worked with her; loved her – but did not understand himself; and feared once she learned of his deeds would turn him away. Whose regrets weighed on him daily, and followed him into his dreams; then waited in the shadows ready to pounce.

Slowly with practiced stealth, he untangled himself from her embrace and sat on the side of the bed peering into the darkness where the dead by his hands leered out at him, and asked ….why? Most recently innocent nuns who had done nothing but to do him a favor – shared that dark space with the fallen enemy and condemned him.

It was his fault they were dead. Kind hearted women of God – murdered because he wished to be that boy again, who believed there was good in all men – especially in those whose lives had been ravished by war.

It could have been him succumbed to a fevered, twisted brain; lost in fantasy, relating to voices harbored in the mind. But he had been fortunate. Athos and Porthos looked out for him; protected him – shielded him as much as was possible and loved him. If not for their guidance – he would have lost his way long ago.

Covering his mouth to keep from crying out, he berated himself for the selfish act. He should have followed orders; kept in mind the hard lessons learned in war – seen that the man was insane; for deep down, knew it was so. But he had wanted so badly to be himself again – compassionate, sympathetic – show concern for a man who had done his part, fought for king and country.

He had wanted to be that d'Artagnan - the boy Constance had fallen in love with.

Looking down at his hands, he could feel the slight tremors of anxiety and held them tightly together – hoping to keep the shakes at bay. His thoughts whirled with the many regrets of his life. That his father was murdered because of him; that he was the catalyst whereby Bonacieux lost his life and with his last breath cursed his love for Constance.

That men who believed in the cause of Spain as he of France died horribly by his hand. And now, three innocent women, because of him, choked to death in their own pool of blood because he failed to embrace the new him. His Queen, next to be harmed in the domino effect of his decisions.

And to have killed a troubled man, not of sound mind - to right the wrong was making him sick.

He peered to the floor and wished a black hole would appear and swallow him up before he was eaten alive by his mistakes; tortured by them to the brink of despair.

Slight, warm fingers traced down his spine and he turned to see his wife gazing at him through half-cast sleepy eyes. Her hand moved to pause above an old injury at his rib, and she leaned over to press her lips there. "Do not fret so husband", she murmured – her voice husky and deep.

"I love you... always."

So he let loose the death grip of his hands, and turned to wholly face her; the moonlight streaming through their window casting a surreal glow. He took in the sight of her upturned face; serious in her fierce declaration - and believed her. She then lifted the sheets to invite him back to her side. He slid down beneath the cool coverlet; and as she covered them both – her arms pulled him in and she whispered softly in his ear, "Rest."

And so he placed his head at her neck; felt her fingers stroke his hair – closed his eyes; let go and drifted down into a peaceful sleep. Where instead of death he dreamed of her; instead of cannon fire he heard the laughter of anticipated children. Here in her arms – he could see the future. An optimistic future – one he would dream of now and hoped the brightness of it would lay his horrors to rest.

Yes – he would dream of this; and for tonight at least – put his regrets behind him.

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Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this! Please let me know what you think. This piece is a multi-chapter entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires March challenge, with the theme of 'Regret'. If you would like to learn more about how to participate, please go to the Musketeers Forum page titled Fete des Mousquetaires to learn more about the rules and how to enter.

Next chapter: Athos


	2. Chapter 2

Regrets

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: Each man had gone to war and come back as someone new – regrets and all. This is a multi-chapter entry for the Fete Des Mousquetaires June challenge, with the theme of 'Regret'.

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Chapter Two: Athos

Pacing back and forth, Athos counted each step; and attempted to measure his stride in equal parts to bring order to his mind; his body – his life. He felt out of control; his limbs curiously detached; his thoughts askew – his focus of late wandering to regretful recollections cloistered behind cracked fissures of his carefully built wall of protection.

Soon, if nothing changed; if he did not correct his course – the cracks would widen and then break apart – exposing all of his misdeeds, mistakes and sorrows. He wondered who he would be then. How would he stave off disappointment; trauma; or regret? Where would he put such pain in order to keep his sanity?

His insides burned hot with unease, robbing him of appetite and much needed sleep. Each step he took trying to harness some degree of restraint only seemed to make things worse. Aggressively he pulled off his doublet and threw it down onto the small cot with force. The sheets there were crisp and pristine with little use.

Aramis would berate him, he mused for not taking care of himself. But pain; worry and shameful misgivings prevented him from thinking straight.

He quit his pacing and gripped the back of Treville's chair, forcing himself to be still. Leaning over he groaned with frustration and felt a twinge at his back. His muscles still ached with bothersome discomfort; even after days removed from the terrible beating he received by Grimaud's hand.

The rush of contained energy bombarded his senses. He was uncomfortable in his own skin and did not know himself. Four years of his life, spent entrenched in life or death situations and in senseless; deathly chaos had done something to him.

He could feel it. Everything was different; nothing was the same. He had gone to war and come back as someone new.

The change was not felt so keenly until he rode across the borders of France and entered Paris. Paris – the city which opened her arms to him, and welcomed him almost a decade ago, no longer felt like home. With her different hue; violent streak, and volatile state she seemed a stranger to him. Whereas before her streets, establishments and vendors were familiar – now he found himself an outsider - an unaccustomed guest.

No matter; he was a stranger to himself – and homelessness, nothing new.

In battle – among widespread slaughter, the change had been minute; almost unnoticed – unrecognizable. For every man had undergone a metamorphosis – and in each other saw only the constant of brotherhood – nothing more. Out there, while in the throes of combat, he had time for nothing – but to fight for his life; keep his men as safe, well fed; well-armed as was possible; and be sure to bring d'Artagnan and Porthos back alive – just as he promised.

No regrets there, for he had gone to great lengths to undertake such an assurance. And would pledge to keep their oath of allegiance to one another all over again if need be.

Now, there was too much time for everything - too much time to eat; too much time to sleep – to dream; to think. There was too much time to wonder how his men were doing on the front lines – how fared what was left of his regiment without his input; why Paris had disintegrated into a cesspool.

He had too much time to think on Grimaud and his threat to France. Endless amounts of time which turned his duty into obsession, and all but exacerbated his growing agitation.

Making a decision he retrieved a bottle of wine from Treville's still secret hiding place. The false compartment beneath the side desk draw was a confidence he shared with the man, told to him on the day of his promotion. He sat down with careful deliberate movements and eyed the liquid contents with apprehension. Once down this road, he thought, where would it lead?

Licking his top lip, he sighed, placed the bottle with forced emphasis of care on the desk; and searched the room with some level of confusion.

He needed a drink badly, and gripped the neck tight. Frowning, he squirmed in his seat; but could find no level of comfort. This room was not his office – it felt foreign and unsettling to sit in this chair and contemplate drinking Treville's wine hidden away for four years. He wondered if his mentor ever regretted his decision to name him Captain; and thought back on that day they shared a cup of wine in stoic, companionable silence – the weight of coming war heavy between them.

To him, he marked time here until someone better would be called Captain and take his place.

Unable to sit another moment, Athos stood abruptly; strode to the window and looked out on the near empty garrison yard. Out there was not his home anymore. This was a place decimated of its regiment under his command; full of boys eager to become musketeers and lose their lives in a war about…..what?

Listening as the bell rang for the evening meal, it saddened him to know that Serge was no longer here to impart fond memories of an earlier, long ago time and pass such recollections forward to a new generation. Jacque no longer tended the stables, whistled lilting tunes as he worked; or spoke fondly of his mother. Outside these gates, the streets simmered with discontent; disillusionment; and mistrust.

He covered his eyes and pressed hard with the heels of his hands, causing stars to implode behind his lids. Paris – the garrison – his King – all had changed, and he most of all.

His heart had hardened; his tongue more severe; his joy – lost to him, emerging in only sporadic moments that caught him off guard. The war had redefined what joyful content he had found in brotherhood, honor and duty. Now everything seemed black or white; right or wrong; good or bad. He could seem to find no in between – no middle ground; the color of life - his spark dwindling to almost nothing.

God forgive him, he missed the battlefield. He missed living on the edge – living hard day to day; hour by hour and sometimes even moment to moment. He missed the heat of blood, the adrenaline of charging toward the enemy and surviving by any means necessary.

With determination he strode toward the desk; picked up Treville's chair and flung it across the room with the strength of pent of fury; and searched its hollow space for peace – peace of mind; peace of body…..stillness; maybe even just quiet. But it wasn't here.

He placed his hands on the desk and took a shuddered breath, hoping to rein in this rage; this destructive energy that possessed him and drove him to drink; to strike out; and then to withdraw and stew within this resurfaced, explosive nature he had thought himself cured of years ago.

His brothers saw it; their concerned looks, attempts to engage him in normalcy – their love not enough to temper this volcano that erupted without warning, then simmered like molten lava beneath the surface.

Balling his fists, stray papers caught between his fingers and he thought of her. Thought of her argument as to why he must choose; why he could not wish to be happy and be Captain. For when he loved her; held her; felt her warmth at his side –the war; a ravaged Paris, no longer existed. She alone held the power to keep the unthinkable horrors he had committed; witnessed – ordered at bay.

She buffered the white noise of screaming death that bombarded his every waking moment, and gave him respite. Her ideals of equality for all men and women; passion for life and justice rang true to him, against his better judgement; and the dogmas of his King. The strength of her beliefs was formidable; and he admired her for it.

When in her sights – he was someone undiscovered; an uncharted territory – and it frightened him. Who was he if not the Captain; if not a musketeer; if not the brother of Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan? What of his duty to France; his King and Treville?

What of his wife, whom he thought of daily and held onto what could have been? Her glove - an ever present, tangible reminder of his weakness – her incomprehensible hold on him. Regrets from his past a festering scar that never healed. And he wouldn't wish it to. He deserved to be reminded of it; punished for his part in his brother's death; and lives altered – to live with it always.

Sylvie asked too much of him. Asked that he know her; be a part of her life – give a part of himself.

His fear? That he would somehow hurt her; that he could not love her; treat her well. That somehow, the war had stripped him of whatever kindness and decency he had garnered from the care of his brothers. And she deserved kindness, decency …and so much more.

His regret? That he used France – his duty as an excuse to put her at arm's length. When in truth he was just afraid. Afraid he had become someone unfit to be among people who lived life with expectations of goodness; a future and fair play.

Seeing Sylvie again had hit him hard. She had come to help –her expressive eyes sad; her posture at first hopeful, then defeated by his ever present mask of indifference he had perfected so long ago. The space between them, a rippling tide of calm; quiet that emanated from her, toward him – beckoned for him to come home and be at peace. But he could not bring himself to join her side, and embrace what she offered.

In his mind, he could not care for her and perform his duty for France. So she turned away and took tranquility with her.

Picking up his chair from the floor – he dragged it back to the desk; sat heavily and considered the map in front of him. Soon his brothers would enter and stand before this desk, ready for orders. They would follow Sylvie's advice – go to Eparcy; hunt down Grimaud and bring him to justice.

He took a weary breath, and massaged the throbbing at his temples; the bruising at his throat – and then rubbed carefully around the pain in his arm. But found he could not ease the pain of regret gaining purchase in his chest – making it hard to breathe.

Suddenly her smile; the sway of her hips; the way she tilted her head when in thought flashed in his consciousness for the briefest of moments. Then before the vision of her could take hold; he buried the idea of her deep amongst all the other regrets residing there.

A knock at the door gave fair warning his brothers were about to enter. Removing the cork from the bottle – he took a long swig that burned down his aching throat, and answered roughly, "Come". He would think on his regrets another day. For now – duty called.

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I want to first off say thank you for the wonderful response to chapter one! And that I hope chapter two did not disappoint. Please review, and let me know what you think. This piece is a multi-chapter entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires June challenge, with the theme of 'Regret'. If you would like to learn more about how to participate, please go to the Musketeers Forum page titled Fete des Mousquetaires to learn more about the rules and how to enter.

Next Chapter: Porthos


	3. Chapter 3

Regrets

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: Each man had gone to war and come back as someone new – regrets and all. This is a multi-chapter entry for the Fete Des Mousquetaires June challenge, with the theme of 'Regret'.

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Chapter Three: Porthos

Mesmerized, Porthos gazed down into the face of a miracle. The squirming, wailing child – all arms, legs and voice; red faced with effort – hollered at the top of her lungs and made him smile. She fit securely in the palms of his hands, and the warm, wet slickness of her did not deter his grip.

"You are safe – yeah", he chuckled; cut the cord of connection with one hand and tied things off with long ago remembered ease.

She was a loud one – he thought; so ready to announce to the world her entrance. He caressed the side of her cheek with his thumb and lifted her up to peer straight into her eyes. The brown orbs caught his and she reached for his nose – small fingers curling into fists.

He looked to the exhausted mother who lay spent on the bedding next to him. She sighed deep with worry - anxiety and fear etched across her face alongside pain. His smile faltered and he frowned with her. A tear escaped the corner of her eye and streamed down to trembling lips. Licking the salty wetness away, she reached for the babe and swiped foamy red froths of blood from atop her head.

Porthos reached for a blanket, swaddled the baby up and handed her over. Pulling the child in close, Elodie bent her head and wept openly – her shoulders shaking in time with the cries of her child. "I am alone in this", she whispered and kissed her newborn gently on the cheek.

Porthos moved quickly to clear away the remnants of afterbirth, then squeezed her arm; sat at her hip and murmured, "I am here Elodie", and waited patiently for help to come. He could hear just beyond the door that the fighting had slowed to sporadic grunts; moans and the stray sound of gun fire. There was no doubt in his mind that his brothers had found success in protecting this place and its women and children.

Elodie leaned over toward him, placed her forehead on his chest – her child nestled between them, and answered – "You are a good man Porthos", her heart filled with joy, and breaking at the same time.

And as he sat still at her side; with her tears dampening his shirt, Porthos looked inward to assess himself – and wondered if what she said was really true. Was he as she saw him – a good man? Because he could feel it. Everything about him was different. Nothing was the same. He had gone to war and come back as someone new.

Truly, in the past – he had seen himself that way – a good man. But he had changed so much, come back tired and weary of death – ready to begin again. If not as the old Porthos – boisterous, fun loving, full of the joy of life – then he supposed this version of him would do.

Staring down at this bundle of energy in her mother's arms, he knew the war had reshaped him into this more thoughtful, meditative, more perceptive person. He could see the shades of gray more clearly now; understood that all was not what it seemed. Instead of brashly knocking down walls; he would attempt to step around; think things through and navigate this new world as such.

Before the war – it was all about living life to the fullest; daring the world to go against him – proving his worth and sharing every glorious moment with those he loved. During the war – it was only about surviving- putting one foot in front of the other and maintaining his hold on sanity. Now, in the presence of new life, he thought – maybe it should be about giving something back to those he had been charged to protect.

His many mistakes, he would live with; rectify them and make good on the effort of moving forward. He reached down; cupped the babes head in his large hand, and felt the warm smoothness. This was a good start.

In battle, he had seen things, and done things that at one time in his life, he thought himself incapable of. But the very essence of war – her brutal intent – had dug deep into his soul and brought out the worst in him; turned him into someone that made him regret being a soldier.

War had tested him harshly and for a moment, he had failed; considered flight and left behind briefly every one he ever truly loved. It had been the lowest moment of his life – one he would regret for as long as he lived.

But all that was over now – though difficult, he had come to accept his frailties and besides, he was home now. Back on solid ground; away from the shifting sands of battle that threatened each day to pull him under and suffocate him.

Home, with his brothers – back in the realm of the real world – he would help bring France ….Paris back to where she once was; maybe even better. In that same vein, he would put right his life and give of himself to those in need.

He could see on his return that the war had taken much from many. Right beside him now was Elodie – a cruel example of war's ultimate sacrifice. Yes – he would try and do his part to tip the scales back in favor to a stable France.

Looking down on this small gift, he agreed with Athos. Men like Grimaud needed to be stopped. Their lust for power and revenge, of little help - when needed most was reform and peace. He could not abide men who took advantage of a devastated people for their own gains. But for his brothers' love for him, it could be he in Grimaud's shoes – a bitter, disillusioned , hard man; brought up in the worse of circumstances – believing that insurrection and greed was the only answer to relieving the harshness and profound regrets of the past.

Elodie's tears now dry; Porthos gently extricated himself; turned away from mother and child, and then stood to stretch his limbs. Though the birthing had been relatively quick – the stress of having battle so close, roaring over Elodie's screams had strained them both. He pulled close a nearby chair; sat down heavily and leaned over to rub the tension from his shoulders. Listening for his friends – the quiet outside unnerved him and took him back to another place and time.

A time and place where he had done things he could not undo. Moments that would haunt him to the grave. Where despair had taken precedence; led him away from the battlefield and his new found ferocious appetite for war.

In that terrible, decisive moment he had thought to escape himself – make haste from the onslaught; and turn his back on the useless brutality of it all – the brutality in him.

He remembered being so very, very tired. His mind numb with grief; the whys of it – his purpose lost to him. The weight of death was so heavy about his neck that it bowed his shoulders and bent his back. It was at the time a relentless force of malevolence that surrounded him, attacked his defenses and penetrated his heart.

With blood on his hands; spotted on his face, in his hair, soaked through his clothes – he laid down his sword and walked away.

Sorrow – he thought he knew. He had lived through it and survived the death of his mother – who lay still; rigid in his arms as a five year old child for two days until someone came to relieve her from his embrace.

Near starvation, he had endured – until he learned to carry his own weight; pick pockets, steal or fight to feed his shrinking belly. The sting of humiliation he had borne stoically – not knowing where he came from; who was his father, what did it mean to be Porthos du Vallon?

He had pushed through it all and found himself to be a strong, capable man with good intentions. Proud of his accomplishments – glad of good friends who loved him, and knew his mother would be pleased.

But out of all this – it was this war that broke him down. Chipped at his resolve bit by bit until his insides were reduced to a hollow core; loud and empty – echoing with disdain; screaming at him to fill it back up with life.

Gladly he had stepped away – hoping to find what was lost.

Resolutely he had walked at a brisk clip for miles with the purpose of finding some respite from the tortures of heinous battles; blood lust and the slow agonizing pall of regret for the things he had done. But as he walked, the realization hit him that he could not walk far enough; or find just the right amount of distance to separate him from such pain. That no matter where he went - it would all follow him down into sleep; cling to his psyche and ride upon his back for the rest of his life.

There was no escape. And to take desertion with him – live with it out in the world was an impossible regret to stomach.

Closing his eyes – he could see that day, that very moment of realization with such clarity. How he stood in the eerie silence of row upon row of purple wild flowers; and how the sun was so bright he squint. The breeze was cool; hit his face and when he breathed in, the scent of nature filled him up. Tall grass swayed at his knees and when he looked up, the sky was unbelievably pristine – not a cloud to been seen. He remembered that a lone bird flew overhead; heading no doubt to some place free of strife.

How could it be that peace such as this was only a few miles away from bedlam?

Turning to look back, he could see the smoke rising over the grassy knolls and the ground rumbling beneath his feet. Back there he had left them – his brothers to fight on alone – to perhaps die that very hour, while he stood out in the open field….safe.

Suddenly, the distant reverberations of musket fire; cannon fodder and screaming men rushed toward him like a torrid storm, and woke him from such a stupor. And he remembered running back at full speed; never stopping to gather his breath; racing hard toward the piercing sounds of men in the heat of battle – yelling aloud stride for stride, "Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me….."

By some miracle, when he reached the perimeter of battle he found his sword among the fallen, lifted it over his head, and re-entered the fray as if he had never left.

He would never share that regretful moment with his brothers. Never. Always – he had prided himself on his strength; his ability to carry any burden, no matter how heavy the load. To have them see him any other way – weak, desolate, hopeless was unthinkable.

Opening his eyes – he noticed Elodie watching him closely; her eyes wet with concern. So he rose to sit once again at her side; caught her hand in what he hoped was a comforting grip and rubbed her knuckles with care. On this day Elodie had heard his confession with compassion and without judgement. To have finally voiced it aloud; to have unburdened his greatest regret – left him the lighter for it. He had never thought to speak of that day – ever; but something in her drew him out.

He wasn't sure why he told her. Perhaps it was her own dire straits – her wanting to lay down, give up and not fight for her life; the future. Fear could do that to you – he knew. But he was through with giving up. There would be no more of that for him; or of anyone else in his sphere if he could help it.

The girl child cried out then, surprising him with the strength of her bellow. Porthos put out a finger, reached to touch her chin and watched in amazed awe as this very miracle, with such tiny hands; and strong tenacity wound her fingers around his and would not let him loose.

He laughed then at her boldness and knew she would one day be a force to be reckoned with. "Hold on little one", he cooed and grinned as her cries gave way to gurgling content.

He would take his cue from her – and be content also.

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Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I really enjoyed this episode (Fools Gold) and hope this chapter does Porthos' experience justice. Please leave a review – as I love to know what you think! At this time, I want to also say thank you to those readers who have not only read; but have reviewed; favorited or are following this entry. To those guest readers who left reviews – thank you, your comments are most appreciated!

This piece is a multi-chapter entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires June challenge, with the theme of 'Regret'. If you would like to learn more about how to participate and join the competition, please go to the Musketeers Forum page titled Fete des Mousquetaires to learn more about the rules and how to enter.

Next and final chapter: Aramis


	4. Chapter 4

Regrets

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: Each man had gone to war and come back as someone new – regrets and all. This is a multi-chapter entry for the Fete Des Mousquetaires June challenge, with the theme of 'Regret'.

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Chapter Four: Aramis

The journey back to Paris was a quiet affair. All around them he could hear the echoed ragged breathing of their mounts; the shuffling of loose undergrowth caused by stumbling feet; and the almost imperceptible groans of his Captain. Athos pulled along the three deserters behind them – resolutely ignoring their difficulty in keeping up with the steady pace. To reach the garrison by nightfall seemed to be the goal.

But he knew better – even if his Captain did not.

Studying Athos closely he could see that finally, the events of the past few days were catching up with him. Head bowed, body sagging; he wondered how much longer the man would stubbornly keep his seat, instead of calling a halt to rest.

Aramis did not have to wait long. Just as Athos listed to the side of his saddle – before he could pull in close to stay the fall – d'Artagnan moved in deftly and rode close to prevent just that. And within seconds, Porthos had closed ranks and the three of them strode side by side, in silent solidarity.

Even their horses stepped high in sync – bumping shoulders; hooves pounding the earth in beat with one another; their strategic positions keeping Athos in his seat. They themselves were a unique trio; four legged veterans of combat – bonded together in their own experiences of battle.

Aramis called out from behind, "Let us stop to rest", and watched as the three of them searched each other out to concur and nod simultaneously in agreement.

Sighing with some level of regret and relief, Aramis reined in his horse; and led their party to a quiet; defensible clearing with water nearby. Sliding from his horse – he took charge of their prisoners and secured them tightly to a downed tree. He watched covertly as his brothers lifted Athos from his saddle, then guided, almost carrying him; with gentle care to sit beneath a shade tree and settle him comfortably with no words between them.

Within moments the two had moved as one mind – unsaddling horses; gathering wood; starting a fire; and readying a meager meal sent along by way of Juliette.

Moving toward his Captain – he sat on his haunches before him, and asked, "Would you have me check on your injuries?" Athos lifted his hand to stay his request. "I will rest Aramis. That is all I need."

He thought to protest, but then reluctantly pressed his lips tight as he looked to d'Artagnan and Porthos, who waited patiently for orders, so took his cue from them. "One hour only", Athos commanded and shifted down painfully in the dirt to rest.

Aramis nodded in assent, though it pained him that Athos would not let him help and see to his wounds. "I will keep watch then", he offered, and hoped disappointment did not sound in his voice.

"And I with you", Porthos chimed in. Athos smiled slightly – pleased about something it seemed to Aramis as he breathed his pain in with a wince before closing weary, red rimmed eyes against the waning light of day.

d'Artagnan then, without direction, laid down at his side; then placed his sword and musket within easy reach. Unexpectedly he grabbed for Athos' shirt beneath his doublet at his heart and drifted down to sleep with him. Aramis raised an eyebrow in question and turned to Porthos for some explanation of such an action. But he only shrugged; not willing it seemed to elaborate.

Instead he declared, "I will go and walk the perimeter", then left his side and was gone.

Watching him leave to disappear into the trees left him feeling bereft and if he were being truthful with himself – lonely. Lonely for his brother's companionship; banter and carefree comradery. Things were slowly healing between them, but it seemed that over the four years they spent apart – d'Artagnan, Athos and Porthos had formed a new kind of bond. One strengthened by shared occurrences of which he would never be a part.

He felt a pang of regret that he was no longer privy to such closeness.

His brothers had gone to war; and returned changed men. They were different now – but somehow the same. No longer as they were that day four years ago, when he turned away and left them on the road to follow another path.

He wondered, when they looked his way; studied him, watched him with a discerning eye if they also saw the changes in him; his sorrows and regrets. That without their physical presence to ground him - he had become this solitary man – introverted and self-contained. He only saw it now - that isolating himself to protect them only served to seclude him from the truth. That he needed them as he needed air. Without them, he was but a shadow – his regrets suffocating him despite his supplications to God.

For his regrets were many.

That he did not realize until it was too late the depths of his mother's sacrifice to see him have a better life haunted him; that he alone survived the massacre at Savoy for what purpose nagged at his soul….still; that Isabel and Adele died horribly because of his choices and only suffered because they loved him broke his heart.

Turning away from his Captain he sighed and took century beneath a sturdy oak. If he had been stronger, able to find comfort some other way in his grief – then the events that led to such isolation – his vow to God would not have been necessary.

Instead he had found love in the arms of his Queen; endangered his family; and fathered a child he could not be father to – unless to incur the wrath of a spiteful King. He could never repay their loyalty – his regret an ever present danger, even to this day and perhaps beyond – reaching even to the stability of his country.

Four years of separation had not diminished his love for them – only made it that much more difficult to reconnect.

It was almost like meeting them again for the first time – only not. The past – a shared history; even the war could not dampen. But it seemed as if their separation had lasted a lifetime. An eon of time, stretching out like a chasm …. over torrential waters. If by some folly, he fell from its heights – he would be swept away by the crushing force; with them – watching from the shore together; though trying – unable to reach him.

In truth, those four years seemed more than a life time. More like an eternity – where d'Artagnan had grown to manhood without him. Not only was he now a man in height and stature, but in maturity. His gaze was steady; his talent fulfilled; his potential for leadership there in the open for all to see – not just Athos who had predicted it true. He only wished that behind such growth he could ease the pain he saw just below the surface. A pain so raw - it hurt to witness; when unbeknownst to d'Artagnan it seeped through.

Athos moaned low in his sleep – distress evident on his face. His eyes moved rapidly beneath his lids – an indication he knew of disturbed sleep. As he moved to sooth his friend, d'Artagnan gripped hard at Athos' shirt and slid closer, never waking himself – his other hand squeezing the hilt of his sword – protecting his mentor on some battlefield deep within their shared dreams.

He settled back down before the fire and marveled at the depth of their connection. It had been strong before; but now…? Frowning he could only guess at the guilt and pain the office of command had visited upon his friend. A reticent man at best – the war seemed to have made his edges sharper; his duty more than his purpose – now an obsession.

He worried for Athos' state of mind, if Grimaud was not apprehended soon; and prayed that in this new life away from battle and constant vigilance, he could find some semblance of happiness, for he deserved it.

They all deserved it.

Of all his mistakes, miscalculations and sorrows; this was his greatest regret. That he had not been there to protect his family; comfort them; and love them. They had grown – suffered, and moved on with their lives; adhering to each other the more for it; just as he had continued on and found a deeper kinship with his Lord.

"You think too loud", Porthos declared wearily and sat heavily beside him. "I could hear you out beyond the trees."

Aramis straightened his back, tilting his head to the side with admiration. He had not heard Porthos approach – his stealth impressive, no doubt improved by four years of forced practice of need.

He studied his friend closely as he reached for the water skin and swallowed down cool water with a satisfied flourish. Aramis smiled – reassured by Porthos' presence, for his friend was still larger than life; full of untapped energy and compassion. He was as he remembered – a man of his word; loyal filled up with….

"We have changed Aramis – I have changed", Porthos interrupted; his gaze locked hard on the flames before them – then beyond to his sleeping comrades. "I am no longer that man you are thinking of now." Aramis could hear clearly the dejection in his voice; shook his head vigorously with denial; and then with force exclaimed, "You are the same to me in all that matters."

Softly over the crackling fire; and the steady even breaths of the others, Aramis could hear the ebb and flow of the nearby stream. A brief flash of memory assailed him of Porthos laughing, tears of joy streaming down his face as he attempted to teach him, knee deep in freezing water – how to catch hold of a fish with his bare hands – with no success. It had been a magical day.

Porthos turned sad eyes to him – but not overly so; as if he simultaneously shared the same memory, and squeezed Aramis' arm fondly.

After some moments of stillness between them, each lost in their own thoughts of the past, present , and what might the future still hold – a thought; an idea began to blossom in Aramis' mind.

For the past four years, he had missed his brothers greatly; agonized over their safety; prayed selfishly for their lives to be spared. Kept them as they were in his mind's eye (an adventurous boy; stoic leader; and boisterous best friend) through tales of adventures told to his young charges – who eagerly awaited each day to hear of their daring exploits – and he to tell them.

Over and above his own regrets – he prayed to God to see them once again; and be in their company. And God, in His most infinite wisdom had answered his petition in the positive. Now he wished for one more prayer to be answered; and would bargain with his life to make it happen.

That God would grant them peace. That he would see fit to end this war with Spain; to end this suffering, this destruction, and needless death. If there was anything he could do – he would do it.

He would make it his mission to bring about such peace with God's help. This was his most fervent wish. To present such a gift to his brothers – to have them move on from this horror into stillness – peace of mind; a hope for the future of love; family and prosperity.

Looking now at Porthos' profile – he thanked God over and over for his mercy and love – for sending Porthos back to him – his touchstone, lifeline; and safety net. The man who had saved his life on numerous occasions, and saved it even now; but did not know it.

Sensing Aramis' change of demeanor; and his eyes boring into his soul, Porthos looked to him with a question in his eyes. "What is it you are up to Aramis?"

"Only thinking how glad that you are with me, my friend. Glad that we have found each other once again. That I will do whatever it takes to bring you peace."

Porthos chuckled and then stilled, as he saw in Aramis' face stern evidence of determination. A decision had been made. He knew that look – one that four years apart had not changed or altered. So with a serious tone – understanding the gravity of this declaration he then insisted fiercely, "Then I would ask Aramis, that you not undertake this task alone."

Aramis smiled, with an old sense of his cheekiness; clapped his friend's shoulder then squeezed tight, "God is on my side Porthos – He will not let me down."

Porthos reached for the hand at his shoulder and gripped it hard, "And nor will I."

* * *

Thank you so much for reading! This is the final chapter for the Fete des Mousquetaires entry with the June theme of 'Regret'. I hope you enjoyed it. Please leave a review, and let me know what you think!

If you would like to learn more about how to participate in the competition, go to the Musketeers Forum page titled Fete des Mousquetaires to learn more about the rules and how to enter. Only a few days left to enter!


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